Moods by Jareth and friends
by Kyndsie
Summary: Moods and ideas experienced and embodied by Jareth, Sarah, and others in the world of "Labyrinth". Formerly titled "Sulking by Jareth". May 3rd: Bittersweet added.
1. Sulking by Jareth

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a character, setting, idea, etc, from the Labyrinth, I don't own it, but it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, etc. If it's any other mythical / cultural creature, than it belongs to the oral history of that people-group. If it's goblin-kicking boots, then it probably belongs to Lixxle (Seriously - go read the fics posted in her gallery!) If it's the song "Knock Three Times," it's performed by Tony Orlando & Dawn, go watch / listen. Not owned by me in any way, shape, or form. And, sadly, the idea of sulking isn't mine either. Not sure who owns it, but I know several people who do it well.**

**Stay tuned for A/N at the end.**

* * *

The Goblin King was sulking.

Of course, he'd deny it, if anybody, goblin, dwarf, Fae, elf, whatever, happen to mention it. It wasn't his posture that gave him away. After all, he NEVER sat upright, "correctly" in his throne, and he frequently had his hand on his chin while thinking. AND he also frequently held his riding crop while doing so.

One tip-off was the expression on his face, although you'd have to be a brave chicken (or very very fool-hardy) to try for a close look.

Another was the weather in the Labyrinth itself: not an outright storm, but building clouds and unpredictable winds.

And, oh yeah, there was the appearance of the armor. The FULL ARMOR. Black, with spikes. And his most sturdy goblin-kicking boots.

For at this moment, various mortal bromides circled in his mind, as indistinct as the mist within one of his crystals before it would show the image.

"Third time pays for all…"

"Bad things happen in threes"

"Third time's the charm"

"Three strikes and you're out"

"Knock three times on the ceiling…"

What if everything with her was his third chance? How many chances did he have with her? Or what if he only had one chance?

And what if that one chance was already gone?

No wonder he was sulking.

* * *

_A/N: NOW, for the important bit - I don't know if this is a real story trying to climb out. It shouldn't be, as I already have at least two going, and one that would like, someday, to have additional story to it. This idea has been rattling around for several weeks, and I was able to tweak it into something worth posting._

HOWEVER, if you give lots and lots of feedback and ideas, then maybe I'll be inspired to continue. :) Otherwise, who knows what mischief our glitter Goblin King will cause if you leave him to sulk, undistracted and unsupervised!


	2. Truth: a Tease by Jareth

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a character, setting, idea, scene, etc, from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, etc. Strange, not-quite-angst is probably mine, but I'll blame it on sleep (or lack thereof).**

Stay tuned for A/N at the end of the chapter. (EDIT - typo, Sept 18th)

* * *

I had to choose for both of us. You deserved a chance to have a choice. _I_ wanted you to have that chance. Knowing what you know gave you a unique perspective, which permitted you to weigh options, to see even more clearly.

And that, my strong Sarah, is what you needed.

And I, you ask. What did I need?

Sarah-love, for you to continue growing into yourself. To develop the confidence that was only in bud during our first adventure. To give fair treatment to those from your past so that you can explore your future without hindrance, without regret. To determine who you will become, and in what direction your life will reach.

For you, Precious, the question isn't what you _can_ accomplish, but what you _wish_ to accomplish. You are a mortal with few permanent obstacles, as your dreams and hopes give you strength and persistence.

You want me to tell you _why_ I interacted with you as I did? My lady, you already have considered dozens of possibilities, and have seen evidence of only one answer that conforms to the facts.

* * *

_Bwahaha - yes the chapter is short. No, I'm not going to tell you what happens next._

_A/N: Decide for yourself on several points (and let me know!):  
*Did we walk in mid-conversation between Jareth & Sarah?  
*Is he composing a message to her?  
*Is he speaking aloud, or thinking to himself (and I've developed telepathic powers)?  
*Is Sarah even in the room, or is he justifying his behaviors to himself in her absence?_

This idea / fragment suddenly started kicking around. I would have loved to save it to incorporate into other, longer fanfic stories, but just couldn't.

Read, review, comment, provide feedback, and possibly more moods will be forthcoming.


	3. Curiosity: Questions by Sarah

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a character, setting, idea, scene, etc, from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, etc, and NOT MINE.  
The safety of felines is their own concern, and not my responsibility. The habit of asking questions dates back at least to Socrates, and isn't mine, either. I do carry nearly a dozen pens in my purse, and Sarah is welcome to them.**

Stay tuned at the end of the chapter for the real Author Note.

* * *

_Things I'd really like to know_

Sarah Williams, age 8

1. Where do all the odd socks go?

2. Why can't I find a pen when I need one?

3. Why do people feel the need to yell LOUDER when they can see that you're close by?

4. What do babies / little kids think about when they're just looking at you or at something?

5. How much do they remember?

6. So what's the deal about being in love or falling in love anyway?

7. They keep saying that there's not really any unicorns, but how do they know?

Age 12

1. Who cares about being a "teenager?" So what?

2. Why do some boys notice, and some ignore?

3. Isn't it all just an inconvenience?

4. How long do dogs live?

5. Does Dad really think that he can hide that he's unhappy about something?

6. Why doesn't Mom call me?

Age 16

1. Drama club or debate team? Or both?

2. Ballroom dancing or modern?

3. Could Karen possibly be _right?!_ about me dating

4. Would it be too strange if I volunteered to watch Toby every weekend?

5. Why can't I get that song out of my head?

6. Why can't I remember the words?

7. I wonder what that first kiss feels like…

Age 20

1. Seriously, isn't there a way around first dates?

2. Why do guys think that an invitation to the game or a movie means that I want them grabbing or trying to wrench my mouth open?

3. Don't people like to just walk around or hang out and talk any more?

4. And what is it with not listening?

5. What will Dad & Karen say when I show them how I've cleaned out my room?

6. If I wish, what would happen?

* * *

_A/N: If you were hoping for more Moods by Jareth, please leave me a comment with a suggestion as to mood, or write it as a companion piece! There's no reason I should get to hog all of them. _

Now, if you leave me lots of comments and feedbacks (and help me find any lurking typos), that will help me to write more. More in this idea of Moods, and maybe even more on my other fics. Deal


	4. SelfPity of Jareth

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a scene, character, setting, idea, etc, from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, etc, and NOT MINE.**

Stay tuned for further disclaimer and A/N at the end.

* * *

Isolated, entrenched in the idea that nobody else can really understand, he allows himself a moment's indulgence, to wallow. Not alone, not even lonely, but that fact ceases to matter when none among the dozens around him have ever encountered this situation.

At what point, he has to wonder, will he have to admit that he has _no power over_ this? He shudders, as even his own musings form themselves within phrases fraught with emotion.

This… _situation…_ is atypical in the Goblin Kingdom, much less in all of the Underground, although with his familiarity with life Aboveground, he knows enough to be less surprised. He shrugs, hoping that it won't spread; he fears that his own population might prove to be a particularly susceptible group. Yet he has to continue to maintain his attitude and the appearance of the _status quo_ to avoid triggering a domino effect.

Even so, he is not entirely without options.

"Fide, Sarah. You said subthig aboud soup?"

* * *

_A/N and addtl disclaimer: _The "common cold" is definitely not mine, but I can't find anyone willing to claim it; if it's yours, please take charge of it, and keep better track of it. And the idea of soup (especially chicken soup!) as a cure-all is many generations old, and so is under public domain.

However, Jareth wasn't going to utter the phrase "chicken soup" within earshot of the goblins, as that would trigger too much noise. And I'm not going to speculate how Jareth caught a cold, or what will happen to them when Jareth recovers.


	5. Friction between Sarah and Jareth

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene, or idea from Labyrinth, or even a HINT of any of those, its (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Connelly, Bowie, etc.**  
**Stay tuned at the end for the rest of the disclaimer.**

* * *

The opposite of stroking. Not petting, brushing, or anything else that might generate those feeling-good chemicals to bounce around.

And it was all _his_ fault. It really was.

And yet, no matter how annoyed she was at this continuing, she was mostly certain that he didn't do _this_ deliberately. The original cause, yes. The factual steps along the way, no.

He wouldn't do that to her, not after considering all possible repercussions. It would interfere with his overall intentions.

So why, she wondered, didn't she confront him about it? Perhaps _confront_ would be too strong or out of place. But why not bring it to his attention? She  
didn't object to being back in the crystal ballroom with him, things restored, but primed for a different conclusion.

She sighed, knowing that her vanity played into this, too.

It's not that she wasn't, and actually continued to be, grateful for the thought behind it all. And the fact that he remembered in such _detail_ despite the unpleasant connotations that he ought to have from that shared moment was sweet, in a creepy, Other, vaguely non-homicidal stalkerish way. That he still treasures that part of their past, and attempts to correct it might hint at the slightest willingness to learn and implement changes to help her.

The first change he _ought_ to make, though, were those blister factories that continued to appear on her very sore feet!

* * *

_A/N: I claim no responsibility for uncomfortable shoes, blisters, twisted ankles, etc. Wear shoes at your own risk._

_Please read & review. Updates to this story and my other ongoings will probably be more delayed, as I'm participating in a Labyrinth fanfic exchange on livejournal. HOWEVER, reviews encourage me to come back and continue, even though the inspiration for this particular mood is, in fact, based on my sad reality._


	6. Candles Organized by Sarah

**All Labyrinth-related characters, locations, etc, are (c) Henson, Froud, Lucas, Bowie, Connelly, etc and NOT MINE  
David Bowie belongs to himself, Iman, and only in a very general way to the fans.**

Happy Birthday, Mr. Jones!

* * *

The day had started out normally. Perhaps _typically_ would be more accurate, depending on the basis for comparison. For the Goblin King, it was both. For the goblin denizens, any day that didn't include being consigned to the Bog was a good day. Beyond that, they were mostly optimistic about any given day.

For Ludo, Sir Didymus, and Hoggle, any day where they could safely see their dear friend was _probably_ a good day, although the dwarf had never really expected to have any good or normal days in his life. Not since he was old enough to stand on his feet, at least.

For Sarah, life had long since ceased to be normal. She could, if she cared to, determine for how long her life had been in an unpredictable state. After all, she knew Toby's age, and could do the math. More to the point, however, was how she was going to work out this… _situation_. After all, the Goblin King could get testy. Jareth was very proprietary when it came to Sarah's attention.

It all started when the Goblin Queen announced at breakfast that she wanted to throw a small celebration, in honor of a friend. And that she wanted to do it that very same afternoon. Jareth agreed, knowing the capabilities of the Castle staff, and having learned not to interfere with most of Sarah's schemes.

And then Sarah unfolded the details. Jareth would _have_ to be mightily involved. She wanted him to re-order time AND to bring the friend, the guest of honor, to the Castle.

Afterward, Jareth reflected that things could have gone worse. In fact, things went rather well. The only _real_ trouble was that the Goblin King utterly refused to lead the tone-deaf goblins in a rendition of a simple melody, written to celebrate a human's birth.

He did, however, agree to allow a single wish to be clearly thought within the halls of his own castle, without enacting any penalty. Given the nature of the wish (_I wish this wasn't really happening to me!_), he granted it freely.

For when you kidnap David Bowie in order to celebrate his birthday, what else can you do?

* * *

_A/N: This little tribute doesn't "count" toward my "about one update a month," so no worries! And if you haven't already heard the news (new song / video and album, get thee to your search engine of choice! The song is "Where are we now", and the new album has a release date in March._


	7. Bewilderment of Jareth

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene, or idea from Labyrinth, or even a HINT of any of those, its (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Bowie, Connelly, etc.** (stay tuned for author note & further disclaimer at the end)

* * *

If there was anything _mundane_ that the Goblin King could be said to truly understand, it was presentation. Part of that included an inherent appreciation of color, texture, line, placement, and yes, above all, sparkles.

In fact, his expertise in this area would have won him accolades as the designer of any fashion house, or top awards for costumes, or the top spot in any of several celebrities' entourages. Had he needed human employment, Jareth would not have lacked qualifications in this area. The complete absence of a degree would not have hindered his rise in this field.

And he knew it, too. Further, his tailor, haberdasher, hat-maker, cobbler, and glove-maker kept themselves in top form, knowing that the Bog would be a light punishment if they failed.

Even the tanner who maintained the Royal Supply of Riding Crops was versed in the color range of blacks, greys, browns, and tans likely needed to complement the Royal Goblin-Kicking boots. He and the cobbler shared an entryway, which meant that every time the Goblin King had a new order for footwear, the tanner compared it to his reference at every stage, to ensure that if a new crop were required, he would be in a position to supply it. A story is told, by Himself the King, that the tanner developed even a slightly better eye at distinguishing between black and the darkest of greys, to the point that the tanner insisted upon sending a new riding crop:

"'A cos t' old one don't match, yer Highness, und I can't be lettin' you carry 't around. 't's more'n my reputation's worth!"

Amused at the tanner's dedication, Jareth allowed it, and was forced to admit, privately, that the tanner was correct. He never told the tanner so, but then again, he never after disagreed with the tanner.

All that to say that there was one thing about fashion and color that Jareth simply did not, could not, and _would_ not understand.

He tried repeatedly to comprehend this… trend, this… phenomenon, but could make no headway. Jareth observed and even questioned (while disguised, naturally) experts, apprentices, dabblers, and those who simply accepted it as fact.

At one point, he was so desperate for knowledge on this score that he considered arranging an interview with the editor-in-chief of _The Book_… the fashion book, that is. But he realized that not even he could pull that off.

Jareth tried to mention it to the erstwhile Band of Adventurers. As predicted, Ludo simply didn't bother about it. Hoggle grimaced even more (yes, it was surprisingly possible!) at the idea of thinking about such things. Maybe he was suddenly afraid that Sarah might someday want him to try it, too!

Sir Didymus _tried_ to help his liege lord, as was his bounded duty as a loyal knight.

"I shall ask the fair maiden about this puzzle, your Highness! We shall lay this mystery to rest at long last!"

Except that was the worst answer that could come of this search. Jareth hastily, but successfully, distracted Sir Didymus with a 13-day assignment to assist Hoggle by counting all of the biting fairies that wandered in circles after being sprayed.

Finally, Jareth admitted defeat.

"Sarah-love, why is it that you cannot paint your toe-nails the same hue as your fingernails?"

* * *

_I do not own any fashion magazine publishing companies, and make no claims as such. Guess for yourself just what The Book is._  
_Any fashion questions should not be directed toward me._  
_Don't ask me to paint your nails, as I am messy. And I don't know the answer to Jareth's question, either._


	8. Sarah's Atypical Day

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene or idea from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Bowie, Connelly, etc, and NOT MINE. The simply fabulous cover pic is by spike30 on dA, used with his permission, and is the inspiration for this story. Please see my profile for the links to the picture, called "hello sarah". OC Martine is mine, even though she doesn't actually appear in the story. (Remove the spaces to follow the links.)**

* * *

It had been an ordinary day for Sarah. For one thing, it was a Tuesday, so it lacked the drama inherent in a moan-about-it Monday. Not Thursday, nor Friday, with the excitement about an upcoming weekend. I wasn't even Wednesday, with the distinction of marking the week's midpoint.

Just a Tuesday.

Sarah knew that she shouldn't complain about it being uneventful. After all, that meant that there weren't any tests, pop quizzes, or projects due. In her Junior year of high school, she knew that she should relish these slower days.

Truly she did, or at least she reminded herself that she did, even while she ignored the very reason for an increased appetite for drama, excitement, and adventure. She _especially_ ignored that same reason when she analyzed the different guys that she'd had crushes on. There was the lithe blonde with flyaway, longish hair; the total opposite – stocky brown-hair, played every sport and was completely not musical; the behind-the-scenes mischief-maker who always seemed to know everybody's secrets yet was never really in trouble; the singer who specialized in riddles and tongue-twisters. The one benefit of this variation in her boyfriend selection was that it eased Karen's mind.

But this was still just a regular, boring, _normal_ Tuesday. Not having a meeting of the Debate Team, the Drama Club, Dance Squad, or Singers, Sarah went straight home.

She enjoyed a snack with Toby, and managed to prevent his spilling a cup of grape juice all over, but just barely.

She took a walk while studying her note cards for an upcoming test in French class.

She concentrated fully on her math homework.

She ate dinner with her family and joined in the conversation.

She played with Toby and read him a story before their Dad started readying things for bath-time.

She answered the phone in the kitchen when it rang.

"Sarah-love, why is it that you cannot paint your toe-nails the same hue as your fingernails?"

She nearly dropped the phone, and would have slammed it down except that Karen walked past just then, with a questioning look on her face.

"Ummm… it's for me. I'm going to take it in the other room. Would you please hang this up in just a sec?"

Karen nodded, and wondered what boy could make Sarah _that_ flustered. If it were drama among the girls at school, the reaction would have been more open.

"Got it!" Sarah half-yelled down the hall from the _parlor,_ as Karen insisted on calling their front room. The benefit of that room, in Sarah's mind, was that it had a door that shut all the way.

Knowing that the Goblin King would have waited, possibly with a smirk on his face, for her return to the phone, she sighed, and lifted it to her face.

"Hello, Jareth. It _has_ been awhile. Is there some reason that you called me on the telephone instead of using the mirror?"

She admitted to herself that she was glad for the not-visible nature of the conversation, as that probably meant that he wouldn't see her fidgeting or blushing or anything else.

"I'm flattered that you called me by my name, Precious. How do you know that I _didn't_?"

She hated to admit it, but he had a point. Bog it!

"Anyway, I hate to admit it, but I have a question about human customs. One that I think you might be able to shed some light on."

Her mind racing, Sarah tried to see the trap. She actually nodded a bit as though gesturing him to continue. When nothing happened, she was forced to speak.

"I'm not sure _why_ you think I'm some kind of expert on human customs. After all, I'm not even eighteen, and haven't studied all the cultures and languages."

Her attempt at being practical and matter-of-fact was supposed to keep her mind from racing ahead and around, and focused on the conversation at hand. Or at least to keep it occupied and _not_ remember other times she had _seen_ his hands do amazing things. And especially _not_ to remember what she could never quite write in her journal or tell to her best friend about the guys that she dated.

What if this call was the one she… well _feared,_ yes. Wanted, missed, dreaded, imagined, and avoided also seemed to fit.

A sigh came from Underground.

"Why is it that you cannot paint your toe-nails the same hue as your fingernails?"

Sarah thought that that was the question that opened the conversation, but now she stared at the receiver in utter disbelief.

"You called me, I have no idea _how_, to ask me about a _pedicure?!_"

Sarah's laughter was lovely, wonderful, freeing, and intoxicating. Jareth felt an unaccustomed level of exhilaration upon hearing it, except that it was directed _at_ him.

"Really now, Sarah-mine, there is no need for – "

There was a sudden click on the line.

Sarah hung up the phone, and then quickly called her friend Martine.

"Guess what? You're not going to believe the call that I just got!"

Sarah didn't stop to consider how she'd explain Jareth to her best friend, only knew that she had to tell someone living at her end of reality.

* * *

_Yup, author here. Please help me find typos, etc. AND go visit the dA page of the cosplayer whose pic inspired this story._


	9. Gallantry Received by Sarah

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene, or idea from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Bowie, Connelly, etc, and NOT MINE.  
I certainly didn't invent the hand-kiss, but am not opposed to receiving them given the right situation.**

**This story was written because of inspiration from various people over on dA. For full credits, please see this story on my account there.**

* * *

He stands there, still. Nothing about his body language communicates unhappiness or displeasure, but I just can't get a bead on his opinion. Yes, I'm finally at the point where I will, occasionally, admit that his opinion of me, of my work, is important. Correction: it is absolutely vital. It has become a gauge. No, that's not quite right.

It's a cornerstone, a touchstone, a milestone, but never a millstone.

Somehow, I now create for him. It doesn't matter if the story is completely unrelated to him, his world, his tastes, or our life.

_Our_ life.

How strange that concept still seems to me. I once feared that join, that connection: Would, I wondered, he consume me until all that remained was an echo, and then how long until that faded? His original offer, enticing then and now, would have made everything too unbalanced for… well… _forever_.

_Why doesn't he say something? Or change the expression on that all-too-frustrating face?!_

I feel the air stir, and I turn slightly to face toward him again. His smoother than light, softer than silk movements still cause my heart to flutter and my breath to catch.

He stands in front of me, within an arm's reach, but he doesn't embrace me. Nor does he smile as I go to him.

His gloved hand outstretched, he begins to bow even as he takes my hand in his. The soft touch owes nothing to the finer-than-leather material, and the warmth is all his own. His thumb brushes slowly over the back of my hand, over my knuckles, as it goes back and forth, even as his fingers curving into my palm cause my fingers to join in.

I'm suddenly struck, again, by the beauty of his hands. The delicacy and power in his touch would bring me to my knees in this very moment, except that I'm still enthralled; my hand is his utterly.

And he moves it, lifting it still in that constant motion. For one exquisite moment, not quite brief, and achingly long, his lips hover over the back of my hand. I feel his breath coming now; it is not quite the steady thing I've come to know. The warmth stirs me as it soothes, encouraging my pulse in a dance akin to a _tarantella_. In mesmerizing me, he is himself entwined, and neither of us has any inclination to escape.

I envy the back of my own hand. He pays detailed attention to those few square inches.

His fingers still lightly caressing, he begins to straighten even as he deftly lowers my hand at a slower rate. This prolonging of contact raises my hand briefly, and I notice how much closer we are, how much closer I must have drawn.

He describes his expression as an arrogant smirk, but we both know the truth: he is pleased with my efforts. More than that, he is proud of me, of my creativity. That I can touch him, reach him, _move_ him when he once considered himself beyond mere human emotion is the greatest reward I shall receive, for he admits it as the greatest gift I could give.

* * *

_A/N: Fluffy and feels and drool and fangirling aside, please let me know if you spot typos. This is, roughly, an exploration of Sarah's reaction to Jareth, when / if he interacts with her in a courtly fashion. I wouldn't like for him to forego the trickster side of himself, but sometimes we ignore this possibility._

Review, comment, find typos, etc!


	10. Gallantry Expanded

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene, or idea from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Bowie, Connelly, etc, and NOT MINE.  
I certainly didn't invent the hand-kiss, but am not opposed to receiving them given the right is** **the expanded version.**

* * *

He stands there, still. Nothing about his body language communicates unhappiness or displeasure, but I just can't get a bead on his opinion. Yes, I'm finally at the point where I will, occasionally, admit that his opinion of me, of my work, is important. Correction: it is absolutely vital. It has become a gauge. No, that's not quite right.

It's a cornerstone, a touchstone, a milestone, but never a millstone.

Somehow, I now create for him. It doesn't matter if the story is completely unrelated to him, his world, his tastes, or our life.

_Our_ life.

How strange that concept still seems to me. I once feared that join, that connection: Would, I wondered, he consume me until all that remained was an echo, and then how long until that faded? His original offer, enticing then and now, would have made everything too unbalanced for… well… _forever_.

_Why doesn't he say something? Or change the expression on that all-too-frustrating face?!_

I feel the air stir, and I turn slightly to face toward him again. His smoother than light, softer than silk movements still cause my heart to flutter and my breath to catch.

He stands in front of me, within an arm's reach, but he doesn't embrace me. Nor does he smile as I go to him.

Our eyes meet. His gaze catches me, holds me, a willing captive of an enshackled jailer. This shared look reveals what our _forever_ is, what it might be, what it can be, and quicksilver slips through me. I know that he hears my heart beat hasten, and this only in anticipation. The depth within his eyes hides his secrets in me, even as he guards mine.

His gloved hand outstretched, he begins to bow even as he takes my hand in his. The soft touch owes nothing to the finer-than-leather material, and the warmth is all his own. His thumb brushes slowly over the back of my hand, over my knuckles, as it goes back and forth, even as his fingers curving into my palm cause my fingers to join in.

I'm suddenly struck, again, by the beauty of his hands. The delicacy and power in his touch would bring me to my knees in this very moment, except that I'm still enthralled; my hand is his utterly.

And he moves it, lifting it still in that constant motion. For one exquisite moment, not quite brief, and achingly long, his lips hover over the back of my hand. I feel his breath coming now; it is not quite the steady thing I've come to know. The warmth stirs me as it soothes, encouraging my pulse in a dance akin to a _tarantella_. In mesmerizing me, he is himself entwined, and neither of us has any inclination to escape.

I envy the back of my own hand. He pays detailed attention to those few square inches.

His fingers still lightly caressing, he begins to straighten even as he deftly lowers my hand at a slower rate. This prolonging of contact raises my hand briefly, and I notice how much closer we are, how much closer I must have drawn.

He pauses, our eyes still locked. He ponders for an eternal moment, and turns my hand over. The earlier feeling of anticipation is left empty, as his lips begin to caress the air above my palm. Those fingers continue the earlier dance on my skin. His tribute to the inside of my wrist reminds me to breathe, and I can do nothing save look in his eyes, listen to my nerve endings, permit respiration, and remain standing.

He raises my hand as he returns to standing, and finally, _finally_, makes contact with my palm.

He describes his expression as an arrogant smirk, but we both know the truth: he is pleased with my efforts. More than that, he is proud of me, of my creativity. That I can touch him, reach him, _move_ him when he once considered himself beyond mere human emotion is the greatest reward I shall receive, for he admits it as the greatest gift I could give.

* * *

_A/N: I realized that I had made no mention of Sarah and Jareth looking at each other. Naturally, they'd be watching each other. And why should the back of the hand get all the attention?_


	11. Bittersweet

**DISCLAIMER: If it's a setting, character, scene, or idea from Labyrinth, it's (c) Henson, Lucas, Froud, Bowie, Connelly, etc, and NOT MINE. With gratitude to startraveller776 and her story "Grey" (posted on dA - see the link on my profile) or go to Chapter 3 of "100 Themes" www. fanfiction s/ 7501169/ 3/ 100-Themes (copy/paste and remove the spaces); also to spike30 for the title (see the link on my profile)**

* * *

A bitter taste, sometimes unexpected, would cross his lips. The first time, he looked around, wondering what utter i_fool_/i would try to cast such a spell against him, or would try to prank him. Tricks and jokes belonged between equals, or rivals, and he had none, at least not close enough to try something.

"_Had_ is accurate, for the moment," he thought, and didn't permit himself to View her.

But the first time it happened, he Bogged all of the chickens, most of the goblins, some dwarves, and all of the fairies that he saw, or knew were in the vicinity. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and didn't surprise those caught up in it. Living in or near the Castle Beyond the Goblin City carried a certain cachet, but also a risk; those residents expected it to happen to them.

Once he gained solitude, he went immediately to his study, and thoroughly examined the wards and defenses of his realm, finding no threats. He checked the weather, and confirmed that it was merely seasonal. He even checked the kitchen stores; the dwarven cook (a _chef extraordinaire_, and so never Bogged) was not missing any supplies.

He retired to his library, and began to research. Finding more information was… no, not a "piece of cake"… simple, once he came across an entry in _Those Interwoven Connections,_ expressing the concept of various types of bonds between all manner of beings and things. This search did eventually lead him back to the tomes that describe the history, nature, and lore of the Labyrinth.

He _knew_ that he shouldn't have sung to her in that situation. Without a measure of reciprocal action, this link could easily prove to be an annoyance without benefit. Disgusted with himself, and with the consequences of her decisions as well as his own, he reminded himself to place the books and scrolls back in place manually, and with care, and then returned to his private suite.

Trying to settle for the evening, he allowed his thoughts to wander to his subjects, sadly neglected for three days. Nothing had gone wrong; in fact, things had run more smoothly under his inattention than his focus. Saving that idea for later consideration, he allowed the stench to begin to dissipate from the most thoroughly drenched of those recent swimmers, and retired to sleep.

Sleep didn't come. In its absence – no, the _cause_ of its absence – was more of that bitterness. This time it slipped just enough into his mouth that he actually _tasted_ it. He groaned, and turned on his side. Before laying a spell on himself to allow for slumber, he sent a "reminder" to his personal staff to allow him extra rest in the morning, and then he welcomed temporary oblivion.

His dreams were mildly influenced by the events that he found disruptive, but not enough for him to give up on sleep. Just enough to sway his resolve. In the days to come, he would have to do more research into this blastedly annoying phenomenon, and see what could be done. Surely this bond could be modified; he knew not to try to remove it entirely. Severance of such a tie was not possible.

The next morning, having made himself grouse at his elven attendants, he focused on his subjects and their genuine needs. He resolved disputes, oversaw the ground-breaking for a new common-use building, and even visited the town to admire the ever-present repairs. He received official messengers, and composed correspondence. And he consulted experts of different backgrounds.

The consensus was no surprise: do not attempt to alter or remove this link. Such an undertaking would cause irreparable damage to you both. He nodded or spoke his thanks to each of them, and continued his musing.

"Given that I actually feel this emotion of hers, I certainly have the _right_ to know what triggers it."

His decision made, the next time it occurred, he Viewed her. She wasn't in any imminent danger, but was sitting quietly, alone in a well-appointed room of her family's house. She sat, staring out the window as though watching for somebody who was already late, and who she _knew_ wasn't coming.

Another time, she was watching some form of entertainment with some of her girl-friends, and they were laughing while he wiped the bitterness away from his mouth.

Other events or moments triggered this: while she helped her brother learn and grow; when she bumped into a corner extra hard; when she realized that that teenaged boy she liked actually liked an almost-enemy of hers.

As she grew, and the reasons for this emotion changed, he realized that he could discern from the exact flavor more precisely what she felt. Sometimes, too, he knew what prompted it. And he kept watching her.

There was one shade of emotion that began to come more frequently. Its increase was gradual, taking years to realize, and it surprised him. He would almost have described it as increasing in determination, had he permitted himself to be fanciful in these matters. He knew by now that another confrontation was inevitable, and he was equally uncertain of the outcome.

So he decided to set his own stage.

She woke from a sound sleep, certain that she had heard someone calling her name. No, certain that _he_ had called her name. Wait, he was _still_ calling her name.

And she could feel an extra warmth in her ear, as though it had received a whisper.

She tried to shrug it off, attribute it to an unusual dream, stress, something she ate the night before, but she knew the truth. As much of the truth as she had context for in her life, at least.

From that point, she began to notice hints of his presence in her day-to-day routine: a whiff of that unique spice in the air around her, a bit of extra gravity-defiance in inanimate objects, the shapes in the clouds.

And she could feel a gentle caress, as though a leather-gloved hand were holding hers in comfort.

She finally realized that these encounters corresponded to those times when she felt something _missing_ in her life, whether or not she succeeded in swallowing it down, channeling it into other pursuits, or allowing herself to wallow.

One afternoon when she had nothing but time, she returned to the park. The obelisk remained surprisingly free of any signs of graffiti or other misuse, and there she waited. She expected something to happen. Anything… even a stray butterfly or a cloud to cross the sun.

Nothing.

He felt her sigh, and smirked, and knew from the taste crossing his lips that their time would be soon.

* * *

_A/N: Here's a new mood, and it's a little earlier in the month than I had scheduled, so enjoy. Read, review, spot typos! If you're on deviantArt, please go glomp on startraveller776 (see the link to her story that helped inspire this one in my profile) and on spike30 (ditto about the link information)_


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